By No Man's Hand Tale 1: The Glorfindel Chronicles
by Devaeriel
Summary: In the Year III 1974, the Witch King of Angmar rose up and destroyed the Dúnedain. The last High King of Men was slain. Gondor and the Forces of the Elves shattered Angmar and in the fight Glorfindel of Rivendell met the Lord of the Nazgûl on the field. E


A/N1- This is for Viv, who set me on the path to writing this, by simply saying, "I've always wanted to see a story about Glorfindel and his fight with the Witch King."

A/N2: I have deliberately changed his horses' name from Asfaloth to Aselof as I don't think even the Elvish horses are immortal. And as Tolkien never specified I've taken creative liberties.

All Tolkien information was gathered from The Encyclopaedia of Arda and The Complete Tolkien Companion by J.E.A Tyler.

This is set in the Third Age 1974 (Third Age began after the Last Alliance and Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand) and is about 1000 years before the War of the Ring (Lord of the Rings). I am working on the premise that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell are one and the same.

By No Man's Hand- Tale 1 : The Glorfindel Chronicles

By Devaeriel

He stood tense and watchful. His knuckles white as his hands clenched the grip of his sword, the tip planted into the lush earth between his feet. The darkness was coming. He could feel it in the depths of his being. Anyone observing the Elf would have mistaken him for a cold marble statue in the dwindling light, so still was he. Every day he watched, every day he waited. His soul was restless; it was not used to inaction. He had the wisdom to bide his time till he acted, and he always acted. The sounds of the night soothed him; they proclaimed that all was right within the Elvish enclave. He breathed deeply and let it his breath out with a small sigh, easing the punishing grip he had on the hilt of his sword.

"The darkness deepens," he spoke softly to the night around him, sensing a familiar presence just out of sight.

"Arthedain, the last kingdom of the Dúnedain, has fallen, the remnants scatter to the four winds."

Glorfindel turned to face the lean figure of his liege and friend, Elrond Half -elven, Lord of Rivendell, who had approached as silently as a ghost. He waited for him to continue; that news was already was known to him as fact.

"And Gondor has mustered to the call at last. The Witch-king grows stronger; he claims more territory each day." The dark-haired peredhil continued, seemingly impassive and unconcerned. Glorfindel knew better, Elrond, like himself still cared about Middle-earth, still cared about the people.

Glorfindel closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to the Valar, gathering his strength. He could feel the change in the world gathering momentum. To the immortal elves it created unease and disturbance within their souls. "And what would you have us do, Lord Elrond?"

It was not a question asked lightly of the young lord. He had faced the weakness of mortality first hand; the experience had left him bitter. The recent knowledge still burned within the peredhil's heart. Glorfindel smiled the barest movement of his lips. It was recent to those with Elvish blood, for humans it was fading from fact into legend. Yet for him, one who had seen countless centuries, Sauron's rising had the clarity of having happened yesterday. But then, things that had happened in another lifetime still had the power to haunt him.

"I would have the darkness pass us by." Elrond's rich tenor was troubled and Glorfindel's sympathies rose once again. The Half-elf was conflicted, he had the sight and could see the path certain actions or inaction would lead down." The defeat of the Witch-king's armies will bring about the destruction of the line of Kings in Gondor."

"It will bring about the end of our time here." Glorfindel whispered. The thought was shocking and yet soothing to one who had returned to Middle-earth, having left a part of himself in the West lands, a part that he could only reclaim by returning.

"That will come to pass only once the Enemy begins to stir again in Mordor."

"What are our alternatives , Elrond? Diminish and leave for the West in years to come. Or be annihilated in the darkness that begins to spread across Middle-earth here and now."

"Círdan the Shipwright has already sent the warriors of Lindon to join with the Gondorians."

"What would you have us do, Lord Elrond?" he asked again.

The Peredhil looked even more troubled, the frown marred the smooth Elvish features. "I must send you and some of our finest archers to join the forces from Gondor and Lindon. Ultimately for the salvation of Middle-earth we must involve ourselves, for to free us of the darkness of Sauron we must sacrifice our peace here. We must also sacrifice Elros' house of Kings in Gondor. For the good of us all."

"They pay a heavy price for Isildur's weakness." Glorfindel muttered with compassion evident in his voice. Humans were like a candle in the wind, a bright spark that should be nurtured and cherished because they are it is gone all too quickly. Whereas Elves had centuries to acquire wisdom, humans were creatures of instinct and desire. Sauron knew their hearts well enough to devise the ultimate weapon of corruption. Even the last of the Númenóreans were susceptible to its will. Glorfindel felt sure that most of Elrond's bitterness from Isildur's actions was because of their shared blood. It is what made the sacrifice a double blow for the Lord of Rivendell; he must condemn the bloodline of his beloved brother Elros to near extinction in order to protect them all from the minion's of Sauron. Many would not understand this hardship for a future so far distant, only the Elves could fathom the darkness to come.

There was silence for a long time, both immortals stared unblinkingly into the night. Finally Glorfindel stirred, "I will leave on the morrow."

There was no need to ask that the Elvish warriors be ready to go as the sun rose. They would be. Elrond's only response was a nod. There was no need for words of appreciation between two such old friends. They had spent the last few centuries in each other's company. Glorfindel smiled fleetingly, he wondered sometimes what it would be like to feel the change in time, to wake from a deep sleep and know the difference between one day and the next. Disturbing thoughts for one of the First Born. But Glorfindel recognised that he was more in tune to the ways of mortals than most Elves. There would be one who would find understanding, but the Elfling had no clue to his future at this time. (Legolas). 

Glorfindel was used to restlessness plaguing him, never to find peace. The serenity within him had shattered when Gondolin had fallen. He clenched his jaw and laughed bitterly; that was the curse of immortality, though many Elves would never understand it, to be a creature with the a gift of a long life with a perfect memory. Never to forget the mistakes of the past before or after his journey to the Halls of Mandos. He shook himself, steering away from those memories of forsaking the West, the fall of Gondolin and the passing of his people. Most importantly he shied away from the memories of fire and death. Unlike most Elves, he knew also of the bitter pill of death and it was only by the grace of the Valar that he had returned to fulfill his vow to protect his people and Middle-earth.

He turned and walked away as silently as a cat, returning to his alcove. It overlooked the waterfalls; he watched the water cascading down of the rocks, as it had since time began. The roaring sound and power helped sooth and focus his mind, until he slipped into the trance liketrance-like state that was akin to sleep for Elves. Yet with the first sounds of morning he was awake and alert. He bathed and dressed, armour and leather, the smell turning his mind to the past again. He strode purposely to the courtyard calling to his beloved horse, Aselof

The Elves were silent as they left Rivendell.. Glorfindel wondered if they were contemplating the chance that they might enter the Halls of Mandos before the end of this conflict. On they marched, day after day, not even stopping to consume their meagre meal of Lembas, Elven waybread that filled the stomach after only one small bite.

Glorfindel listened closely to the signs of the world around him as they travelled silently through Middle Earth. Nature often spoke to Eldar, telling them of what surrounded them more truthfully then any scout could. The trees murmured constantly, the birds told stories of the far distant lands. More importantly they told him of the spread of Angmar, the cancerous darkness that was consuming the North, causing the death of everything in its ravenous path.

Though still miles away from Lake Evendim, where the armies of Gondor and Lindon rested, he nonetheless felt the presence of others of his kind. Other elves. They were of Lindon, kin friendly to Rivendell. Círdan, their leader was Guardian of the Grey Havens, former bearer of Narya, the Ring of Fire, and considered the wisest of the Elves. He welcomed them voicelessly, and their wordless greetings and assessment of the situation rushed through his mind in a split second, though it would be many days before he saw them. He settled his warriors for the night; silently they discussed battle plans and the extent of the damages. All told, Glorfindel felt hope leave him in a rush. For the first time in his long life he felt the chill of defeat. They were totally outnumbered and all seemed futile.

He gritted his teeth against the feelings and thoughts. 'The time of the Elves is NOT over yet. That means there is always hope.' He clung to that tightly until the feelings subsided. If he'd been human he would have been sweating with the effort it cost him. He pitied mortals, for if that was the response the Witch-king inflicted on the Immortal elves then he could only imagine the devastation it would wreak amongst humans. As the moon moved through the sky he stared into the ink black sky through a canopy of leaves from the trees above, trying to counter the lack of spirit he felt from the intelligence received from his kin. The effect was almost eerie and as fatigue pulled at his mind, he remembered another life and other trees.

He had walked beneath the light of the Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin. They had left their mark on his soul, and he had despaired at their destruction. That brought him to other memories, of his time in Valinor after being released from the Hall of Mandos, forgiven his sins. He'd had the choice to stay or to return to Middle-earthand help Gil-galad and Elrond fight the rise of Sauron. Ironically it was the last thought that brought him a measure of peace and a surge of strength. His will hardened against the despair.

'You have failed Witch-king,' his mind cried triumphantly. The greatest weapon of the enemy was the fear he instilled, the same memories that caused the High Elf grief gave him strength, he understood what most never realised, it was the sum of experience that made a being. The good and the bad, and how he'd reacted in light of them both. He'd faced a worse situation and over came it. He'd given all he'd had for those he loved, and he would do no less now.

The days came and went, the feeling of dread increased as they marched closer and closer to their kin. Glorfindel held onto his strength, but he also felt a curious detachment begin to take hold. He regarded the signs of battle and slaughter being wreaked around him with a calm steadiness. In other tales what settled over him would be called eldritch or fey, the magic of the Elves was upon him, and he couldn't have turned back even if he'd wanted to. When they stopped for the night Glorfindel called on his men to set up camp and to wait, senses sharp. For his sight told him that the battle would come to them before long, and that the most strategic thing for them to do was wait, and then they could route the armies of Angmar.

They stood vigil that night, watching the north as the sounds of battle began drawing closer, the screams of the wounded and dying grated on even the Elves. And then finally, the rustling of nearby undergrowth, the sound of fleeing footsteps. As one the Elves cried to Ilúvatar and charged. Those bright beings effectively cut off the forces of the Witch-king, who were caught between the Cavalry of Gondor and the Elves of Lindon and Rivendell. The host from Imladris were like a hammer to the back, punching in hard and fast.

Glorfindel fought with grace and beauty, each movement a courtly dance, albeit a deadly one. The day waned and still he fought without tiring, though blood and grime covered the usually impeccable Elf-lord. He cut a swath through the oncoming hoard whose numbers never seemed to lessen, and then he felt it. That dread, the increase of his heartbeat as the sensation washed over him, he spun swiftly. For a moment he was paralysed, it had been the same when he'd first faced the Balrog of Morgoth. But then with a blood curdling scream he launched himself at the dark figure swathed in layers of black cloth and armour.

Glorfindel lithely dodged the huge wickedly spiked mace. He swung up under the guard of the Witch King, his mind strangely detached, even when he knew he ought to be frightened at how easily the wraith parried and countered. A blow from the Nazgûl's hand sent him staggering back blindly, he could feel and taste the warm salty blood. He quickly rolled to his feet, unsteady as the menacing Ringwraith stalked him.

He regarded the advancing menace calmly, almost expectantly; he was oblivious to the shining mark of his own power. The light of the Two Trees bathing him in a nimbus that glowed throughout both spirit and mortal worlds. But his enemy saw it and quailed before him. If the Witch-king of Angmar had expected an easy victory that hope was dashed as he faced the High Elf. A shudder passed through the Nazgûl, setting his dark cloak writhing.

A small smile flickered across Glorfindel's lips as the Black Captain faltered in his advance. The two spent an age regarding one another, assessing and calculating, trying to find weaknesses, before the Witch-king moved, resuming his advance ever so slowly. Glorfindel stiffened slightly, weapon at the ready, his gaze never faltering from the Wraith. He held steady, he could almost smell the terror radiating from the cursed being. In the end, evil was afraid of destruction, afraid of paying the price for the pain it inflicted.

Physically they were evenly matched despite the Nazgûl's apparent size. Even though he held form by magic, in life the King had been tall and broad, his strength unbeatable. Now in his twilight world, the Witch-king still had that strength. Glorfindel, like all elves, was lithe and speedy, his strength belied by his slight appearance. Where he was outmatched in strength by Black Númenorean's he made up for in the extra sense all his kind were graced with. He anticipated the next move, it would not be a physical manoeuvre, nor magical, for Glorfindel was strong enough to counter anything that the Lord of the Nazgûl could throw at him.

The Witch King tired a mental assault, hoping to drown the Noldor in doubts and despair. Glorfindel's best weapon was the fact that he'd been there before and had triumphed, he'd faced the Balrog, despite his own death, and he had defeated the Fire of Udûn. One thing was certain, the Nazgûl Lord wouldn't intimidate a High Elf who was deeply confident of the power he wielded. It was a tangible presence about Glorfindel, and the Wraith saw it and feared it.

Glorfindel remained stationary as Sauron's foulest slave raised the mace he still gripped. His eyes scanned everything in a split second, noticing the fading daylight to the growing silence on the battle field.

"Do you think that one insignificant Elf can defeat me?" Glorfindel shuddered at the sound of that sibilant whisper, it sounded torn from the wraith's non-existent throat. As a reply he held up his sword, it reflected the light of his power. The blade was of his former house, that Idril had taken after the destruction of Gondolin and given to her son, Eärendil. When he'd returned to Middle Earth, Elrond had returned the sword into his possession.

"Foolish Elf none can defy the Dark Lord. You serve no purpose but your death."

"You do Sauron's bidding; you are nothing but a slave to his desires, destroyed by the power of the rings. You are but a shadow to frighten men, you have no hold over me."

"Once the Dúnedain have been completely destroyed, and Gondor is laying in ruins and ashes, the Dark Lord will make sure that the elves can no longer oppose his will. He will find the Rings and one by one you will fall to his power."

Glorfindel straightened, every inch the proud and powerful High Elf-lord. "Not while I breathe. We will drive you back time and time again." His voice rang with the power behind his words.

"None have the power to defeat me." The Witch King growled, supremely confident. "Defy Sauron at your own peril."

"I would not be so sure." His voice rang with power and prophecy behind his words. "Your defeat will not come by any mortal man's hand." As he uttered these words he inched forward, step by step. "And I am no man."

The Nazgûl sensed the truth in the foretelling, it crackled in the air and sent a shiver through the spirit realm, and he felt fear for the first time in an age. He could see his death clearly in this Elf's gaze. As the Elf advanced the Nazgûl began backing away, finally accepting the total defeat of his forces and the destruction of the Kingdom of Angmar. Without further ado he fled south to his lair at Minas Morgul, shrieking out his despair as he ran. Glorfindel gave chase until the Witch-king reached the edge of the plains.

There Glorfindel wavered between his desire to annihilate the Black Captain and his foresight, he'd seen the future as he'd spoken the words, and no elf's hand would bring about the fall of the Sorcerer King. His duty lay in helping the forces from Gondor and Lindon eradicate the remains of Angmar's army. He would also have to take his wounded back to Rivendell so they could find healing. He sheathed his sword, and turned, running back to what was left of his small force. It did not take long to finish "mopping' up after the battle, and by the end even Glorfindel had come to the end of his Elven stamina.

He staggered back towards their small camp amongst the trees, leaning heavily upon Aselof on his return, grateful for the stallion's strength. He soothingly stroked his beloved friend's mane before feeling another presence impinge on his solitude. There stood the two commanders of the allied forces of Gondor and Lindon, Eärnur and Círdan. He inclined his head on greeting, vision sparkling dizzily past his waking eyes as he regarding regarded the Prince of Gondor, soon to be King. Once again he felt his heart tremble at the force of prophecy; Eärnur would be the Last King of Gondor. He would reign for seven short years and the Witch-king would have his revenge for this day's work. Eärnur's death would set in motion events to the conclusion of the battle for supremacy in Middle Earth.

The world was changing; he could feel it in his soul.


End file.
